Curt Bennett

Curt Bennett was a U.S. pilot on active service in Vietnam.He served as a captain in the Marines during the war

In Vietnam, you weren’t close to people. You learn not to get close. You kept a distance. That way when something happened to them, it was OK because it wasn’t you,” he says. “And you could go past it quicker. You didn’t dwell on death. ... ‘He was unlucky and I wasn’t’ — that’s the way it works.

HarbingersA poem on written on the occasion of the Normandy landings anniversary

Frail, old men with weathered hands stand, Alone, lost on the wide sandy beaches,Each turning back his rusty mind clock Piercing the veil of memoriesWhen they were young, anxious and terrified,Boy-soldiers in battle fighting for their lives, Experiencing the gamut of fear and deathWatching friends died horribly,Scarring their young minds, forever.

Blue beaches murmur wavesSplashing old, rusted war remnants.A sea bird flaps wet beachesWhere the sea swells and crashes gently on wet sand,Retreating back erasing all footprints.The men stare the distance,At blurred memories through tears.Trickling down their cheeks dripping softly,To merge with the sea like before.

They came to say good-bye to their friends,To a confused past which has no answers.The graveyard crosses watch in stony silence, Stoically from tree shadows on soft meadows,In eternal military formation fronted by small, flags,Wind-shivering in the hush of silence. Marching the stillness in quiet precisionProtecting the young soldiers buried there,Frozen in time and deathThe old veterans stand awkward, unsure with the dead.Experiencing those familiar, dreaded, sick feelingsOf remorse, regret, blame, and fault for what happenedTo their generation who gave so much for their country.They have gathered one final time To share history, blame and guilt for all eternityBanding together as one, they embrace the moment,Experiencing once more, this terrible place ofmemories.

And the same salt sea air, still blows up from the beach Once inhaled in panic by all the young fighting men Mired in the beach mud conducting the senseless slaughter of children, Trapped forever in the obscenity and vulgarity of war,The pain returns for a moment, overwhelming them,It hangs suspended, as real as yesterday, then drifts away and mellows away.Now time, history, and denial blessedly blur the horror and inhumanityOf what they did; of what was done to them.

The War President from AmericaMounts the podiums to prattle the virtues of war,Attempting to rewrite history, to deny war's reality, He exploits the moment for selfish means, To justify his war as a noble cause, ignoring its brutality,Thoughtlessly attempting to validate, substantiate, and authenticate,

War's vicious crimes against civilizationTurning the senseless slaughter of innocentsInto a righteous cause, to be proud of and condone..Turning war into a sound-bite of empty wordsOf praise, blessing, glory, and accomplishment.Something to be proud of, to revel in,To relish with sacred, biblical rhetoricFrom a shallow, self-centered political opportunist. Whose meanings and oratory become quickly lost,His words floating away with the wind, out of relevance, out of touchOut of context, drifting, beyond the restive crowds.To fall useless and disappear, in the cold, impassionate mud.Falling deaf on the ears of the dead warriorsThe ultimate, wasted sacrifice, from another generation

It is at this moment, the old veterans Eyes mist up, overflow, and tears flow shamelessly

As they at last comprehend all their sacrifice, all their pain,All their sorrow, all their suffering, all the death,Did not change or alter a thing, was not a lesson learnedNor an experience not to be repeated.. Realizing their friend's painful, brutal, ultimate sacrificeWas only a necessary evil of Mankind's political processWhich has never changed, and never will, For each generation brings anew to the worldIts own self-styled madness of universal death, tragedy and suffering,In wars to be fought by the young, bright-eyed children of the world Unknowingly raised as sacrificial lambs of slaughter,To be killed and gone forever, for nothing. That is why, all Veterans cry.

In this hallowed place of the deadThe lonely graves of war's youthful victimsWho died for a thought, an idea, for a causePromulgated by selfish, insane men in powerThese war graves and cemeteries are Harbingers Of the eternal, mindless death cycle of war. Young men killed by politicians' words and mindless acts,Their promise and existence forever ended too soon.Now, forever sleep beneath the green muffled grassSharing the earth with the youth and victims of past wars,Too numerous to count, to numbing to contemplate,The dead, as powerless and impotent as the now living To change or alter, or detour the inexorable course of madmen,They patiently wait for the next generation to join them.

AMERICA

"MY COUNTRY 'TIS OF THEE….."Here I sit in shit and mudAnd wipe the dried and caking bloodFrom my dead friends face. The littered zoneIs full of young men going homeIn dirty ponchos. Their lives so fast undoneAs from their lips, forever dumbThey scream in silent shock and fearIn frozen agony. Quietly, they lie so nearIn sleeping rank and file. Who might knowWhat thought flashed at the jolting blowThat ripped the jagged hole? What soundEscaped them as they pitched to groundTo bubble out their scarlet life? What tears,Welled up to grasp those unsaid fearsHad at last come true! No tears now,Just swarming flies fill their vacant, sightless eyes.

"SWEET LAND OF LIBERTY…."Whose turned into a common whore!She sends her children off to war,Then turns her back! Corrupted byHer Politicians pimpish lie,His selfish greed, his quest for powerInventing conflicts for the dollarCreating lies to justifySending young boys off to die.That brings a tarnished bitter shameTo what once was the shining nameOf "Liberty". How besmirched! How profane!Her people's backs are bent in painAnd tragedy. Their birthright soldThe elected to the rich, the old,The power men, select, elite,Who drag this country to their feet.Big business marries pentagon,Mindless whore and bitches sonWhose raging coupling rampant runs.

"OF THEE I SING……"But sung with broken voice and heartTo Glory which was once a partOf pride, not shame. This countryRich and rising from the seaDesigned for man's integrityBlessed by Freedom's pure sweet thought,By countless lives, so costly bought,So dear the deadly priceOf sweat, blood, toil and sacrificeOf common men who shared the dream,Their clear, fresh message brightly beamedTo shine world turmoil and its dark…Now, 'tis but a battered, weary sparkDeflowered, debauched, depraved, debased,A blight upon the might raceOf men who kept this country strong.Their hopes, their dreams, their ringing songLie stilled, forevermore.

"LAND WHERE MY FATHERS DIED…."So quiet they sleep the countrysideWhere in the name of country's prideThey fought they fell, they bled, they diedIn patriotic genocide. Every man once was a sonWho as a boy would laugh, would run,Would warm his mother's loving heart, would playHis little childhood games, at night would layIn sleepy bed awaiting mother's tender kissGoodnight. Such innocence, such joyous bliss.Too soon, the lad became the man,His country called he took its standAnd fell. For what? And why?Was it right that he should die?So young, so unfilled, such tragic waste,His youth and promise lived in haste.Now lost, destroyed, forever gone.Forever boys they slumber onBeneath hushed white crosses stark and stillWhose mute ranks march pastured hillAnd keep their lasting peace.

'LAND OF THE PILGRIM'S PRIDE…."Across the land the unrest spreadAs pictures of the young men deadFill the nightly news. Now more and moreReach eighteen and leave for war,Brother following brother. Slow, rising hateMakes people march and demonstrate,Rioting in the streets of shameWhere high aloft the burning flameOf once, sacred flag now fills the airWith shouts of people in despair!At last, the great lie stands exposed,THERE IS NO GAME OF DOMINOES!Yet, fickle Washington fast deniesThey ever fabricated liesAnd battle the surging angry forcesWith riot guns and trampling horses,Shooting students in the chestWhose only crime, was to protest!A right they were taught, WAS GUARANTEED!Now fast the spreading cancer seedBlossoms ugly. Divided camps hard-split the landWhere Freedom's justice used to standIt lies in shambles with the dream.As the next generation is caught in between,Bewildered, confused, filled with helpless rage!Bastard children of their age!

"FROM EVERY MOUNTAINSIDE…."The piercing wail of distant trainEchoes faint through misty rain.The silent family waits alone.Their son at last is coming home.Too young to really understand,The small child clutches Mother's handAnd tells her, "Ma-ma, please, don't cry!"Mom dabs her swollen reddened eyesAnd tries to smile, but more tears comeAnd course her tight drawn cheeks. Now fromThe pale gray west the train appearsAnd brings a flood of wrenching tearsFrom the Father who stands alone…apart.No known words can mend his broken heartOr fill his loss, those grinding achesOf anguish, the crushing agony that breaksAnd kills the spirit of a man.Now darkness gathers on the landAs slow the puffing, hissing trainCreeps to its stop. The driving rainSoftens in the gloom. A rasping slideOf box-car doors, and there insideThe shadowed coffin rests aloneAs Johnny at last, comes marching homeTo sleep his endless dream.

Not a breezeStirred the empty clearing.Like ghostly sentinels,The battle-splintered treesStand their lonely vigilOn the silent outskirts.

The men lay stillIn the rich, red mudIn awkward configurations.It was difficult to tellWhich one belonged?To which nation?

Their stiff armsSeemed to stretch outReaching for each other.It was almost, as ifUniversal brotherhoodHad at last…been realized.

THE SCHOOL

The early morning warmed As down the dusty roadThe big truck wheeled.If was full of Officers and meFrom the bombing squadronOn their way to school.

Through the small Ville of An-TanThey drove the narrow, crooked streetsBounding the battered, small shell houses.Green algae ditches held swarming water,Bars, Massage, and Dancing, red signsProclaiming business as usual.

The village people stared at the truck.Quietly they stood, old peasant stockWith broken, dark-red stained teethAnd yellow wax in their earsWhile white, tiny lice specksGrazed on the black, oily hair.

Slowly the truck drove the pontoon bridgeBuilt by the Corps of Engineers.On the other side on the rightSat the villager's schoolEnclosed by a wire fence,It sat shadowed under the tall trees.

The two male schoolteachers were young,Somewhere in their 20's,They stood just outside on the stoopWith nervous eyes watching everything,Holding hands, they smiled widelyDisplaying their shiny gold teeth.

Their singsong soft voicesOrdered the children in lineFor the ceremony,"Scholarships" would be awarded,Worth about ten American dollarsTo the most "deserving".

A big, gangling American…A small Vietnamese child…Big hands, to little ones…A grateful bow of thanks,An awkward bend of acknowledgement,There were no communication problems.

How strange, how different,This parody of children hereCompared to those in the States.These poor kids had NOTHING!And for most of the,The bleak future held the same.

These were the innocents,These, the onesWho stood to lose the most,To hurt the mostAnd with no wayTo every change anything.

They would grow up to the soundOf howling airplanes and rumbling artillery,Constant, never ending noises of war,Of stupid ideologies tearing at each other,Killing, destroying wiping everything away,And in the end, it is all bullshit!

The squadron Flight SurgeonMoves among the kids,Some already had lost some teeth,Some had not teeth at all.One small boys ears were full of red dirtCrawling with little, black speckled bugs.

For most of the AmericansThis was the first true contact,Their initial meeting face to faceWith the children over hereWho were about the same size and shapeOf little brothers and sisters back home.

The mood grew strangely quiet and awkwardAs each pilot slowly realizedThat kids just like these were his fleeing targetsRunning before his dull, yellow bombsightThe second before he thumbed the buttonAnd released his tumbling napalm.

"Ring around the rosy,A pocket full of posy.Ashes…ashes…all fall down…."

Abu Ghraib

The photos were painfully clear,In color, and graphically detailed,In multi-pixel formatFrom across the world.From another faraway landIn another place, and time.They were undeniable, uncompromising,Painful to look at, hard to accept.

Some photos showed naked menWearing black hoods over their heads,Clustered in a pile on the floor,As an American girl grinned and pointed at their genitalia,As if she found it somewhat lacking.Manacled hands embracing each otherBare skin on bare skinsIn a mangled group of bodiesLying together in a jangled, confusing heap.They lay helpless before the Americans.

One showed a prisoner like a giant moth-manStanding on boxes with electrodes,Attached to his fingers.Still another terrified man,Backed away, handcuffed,Cringing against the wallIn total terror as excited dogs,Eagerly strained and barked for the prize.

Most disturbing in that sinister jailKnown in Iraq as Abu GhraibA smiling American soldier,Looks down at a prisoner,Laying on the ground like a dog,She held a leash to his neckShe stood there stoically watchingHer captured prize of Iraqi manhoodCowering on the cold cement.Helpless, powerless to resist,Unable to act, unable to move,Unable to think, defenselessTotally submissive and subservient,Totally at the mercy of the war.These photos are a metaphor,Of what America considers Iraq,What we think of the Iraqi people,Of our dominance, or our authority,Of our cruelty, and our brutality,Our inhumanity and callousness,With total disregard for other peoplesExcept ourselves and our selfish priorities,Where the Military abuse their power,Where the strong abuse the weak,Where Leaders are beyond the law,Beyond authority, beyond reproachTo unfortunate prisoners of war,They appear to believeThey are answerable to no one.

A parallel metaphor emerges,Of guards and prisoners,Of leashes and hoodsOf the calloused indifferenceThe brutal treatment to Prisoners of War.It is Cheney holding the LeashOf a feckless, hooded naked Congress,Secretary Rumsfeld dragging the leashOf the military stumbling blindly behind,

President Bush leads the trioDown his yellow brick road,Paved with lies and misrepresentations,False Fear, terror, deceit,And fanciful, imagined enemies,Dragging behind him the hooded,Unseeing naked American massesDown his deadly roadOf war and destruction,All of us, unwilling participants in his War,All of us -- in AmericaPrisoners of War.

Coming Home

Inside the gray, steel womb of cargo space.Flag covered caskets quietly lieIn rank and file, line on line in silence.Bound together in final military formationFlags of blood reds, cloud whites and ocean blues,Drape and caress the dull, pewter boxesEncasing the broken, ashen, hallowed remainsOf dead young boys and girls,Forced to pay the ultimate priceIn this foreign land with strange people,Where brutal Death forever lurks,Beneath the surface, around the cornerWatching with cold eyes that never sleep.

Sealing the precious cargo inside.Engines come to life and rumble the air,The huge cargo transport trundles awayDisappearing in the darkness of the taxiway.Moments later, re-emerging, a roaring shadowThat races and climbs sharply up and awayInto the night air to seek the stars.

Floating suspended between earth and skyThe westbound plane heads for the full moon.Carrying its sleeping, youthful cargo home.To the land that gave them birth,To the parents who loved and raised thenTo the government who sent them to fight,And the politicians who killed them.In the early morning hours, it touches downOn glistening tarmac of the sleeping base.To taxi off and away towards the dark distant hangerWhere black hearses wait under tight security.

Once again hydraulics hum the cargo doors open.The setting moon softly illuminates the caskets.So quietly they lie, so well they sleep,With no more promises to keep,No more miles to go.